Chapter 1 #2
How ridiculous she must look. She was among the tallest soloists in the ballet.
Her limbs had lengthened, but the Papillon…
the Papillon had grown too. When she had been thirteen, it had filled her—like batter poured into a tin, settling into every corner.
She had told herself that once she was bigger, it would feel smaller.
But she had grown, and Papillon had risen with her, filling her to the seams—and sometimes, when she wasn’t careful, spilling over.
“I wish I could be someone else,” Celeste whispered.
Someone like Rosalind, who had disguised herself as a man and tested love on her own terms, and not Ophelia, who’d dissolved into water and grief and silence.
“If a storm came right now,” Celeste murmured, “I wouldn’t run. I’d let it take me. Wash me up in a new world. Give me a new name. A new part to play. Like Viola. She shipwrecked into something better.”
“You will dance the solos, and a nymph does not cry. It makes her eyes puffy.” Katherina’s fingers drifted through her hair. “You always had such beautiful red hair. Ever since you were a child.”
“Perhaps,” Celeste said quietly, “if you’d cut it. Or hidden it under a cap like a nun. Maybe he wouldn’t have—”
Katherina’s hand stilled. “What, Celeste?”
“Nothing,” Celeste said.
“Sometimes it helps to speak of the past,” Katherina said.
Celeste caught a faint glimmer of herself in the glass-paneled cabinet—tear-streaked cheeks, swollen eyes, mouth trembling. She looked pathetic.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s over. I’m over it. I should be over it.”
Katherina watched her with her unnerving kohl-lined eyes.
“Would you like me to fetch something?” Celeste said. “I heard the kitchens received smuggled champagne. Or bonbons. I could steal you three.”
“What happened that night?” Katherina asked.
Celeste sprang to her feet, dashing away her tears with both hands. “Nothing happened,” she said, her voice cracking. “That’s how weak I am. Helene or Louise would’ve laughed in his face. They wouldn’t still be afraid of shadows.”
Katherina exhaled, then turned to the liquor cart. She held out a glass of brandy. “Here. It will soothe your nerves.”
When Celeste was about to reach for it, a throat was cleared in the doorway.
Katherina moved in front of Celeste, shielding her. “May I help you, sir?”
The man dipped his head. “Madam Katherina, I presume. I hope I do not intrude on your schedule.”
Celeste glanced at the door. She could flee—but to pass him now would mean brushing against him. So she stepped back and let her spine press into the wall, playing the role of one of Katherina’s knick-knacks.
Katherina eyed the stranger from his scuffed boots to the neat knot of his neckcloth. “You presume correctly,” she said at last, her accent sharpening the way it always did when dealing with strangers. “But you do intrude. I’m a woman with little patience for interruption. State your purpose, sir.”
“I should not take more of your time than necessary. My name is Nathaniel Crowther, and I’m an officer attached to Bow Street. I have questions regarding one of your dancers.”
Celeste’s fingers curled around the edge of the velvet couch. Please, this could not be about Louise and her liberal friends again.
Then his gaze shifted toward her.
Celeste braced herself for the look. The slow rake, the greedy appraisal that turned her into something consumable. But he didn’t leer. His gaze caught on her like a misstep in choreography, surprise widening his eyes.
“My girls are under my protection, Mr. Crowther,” Katherina said. “They work hard to make an honest living and do not deserve to be harassed by—”
“Nor is harassment my aim. I am seeking a young lady. Her name is Lady Cecilia Stratton.”
A wave of relief swept over Celeste. This wasn’t about Louise. Sweet deliverance.
“If you’re searching for an aristocrat in Covent Garden, Mr. Crowther, I suggest you come at night. During the day, only dancers are allowed in the theater.” With a graceful flick of her wrist, Katherina pointed at the door.
Crowther didn’t budge. “Are you sure, madam? The young lady I seek is the daughter of the Marquess of Faversham.”
Katherina stood straighter. “Do you mind, Mr. Crowther? I have a class to teach, and my dancers are waiting.”
“And her mother,” he continued, his voice heavy as a curtain drop, “was Angélique de Rochefoucauld. Daughter of the Duc de Rochefoucauld.”
A chill rippled across Celeste’s skin, and her legs took her out of the shadows.
“You told me my mother’s name was Angélique,” Celeste said. “Did you not, Katherina?”
The glass slipped from Katherina’s hand.
Celeste stood still. All around her, the world felt suspended, as if the setting of her life had dropped, and a new one, painted in unfamiliar colors, waited behind it.
She looked between the stranger and the woman who had raised her. Her pulse thudded in her throat. A hundred questions spiraled inside her, none ready for air… but somehow she knew her play’s first act had just begun.
Mr. Crowther’s lips curved, and he gave a dignified bow. “Lady Cecilia. A pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”